


The Gentleman’s Guide to Breaking in a Suit

by 221b_hound



Series: Captains of Industry [24]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Clothing Kink, M/M, Oral Sex, Sherlock in Heels, Sherlock in Panties, Suit Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 03:09:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6735652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is working today, but he has texted Sherlock to say he’s bringing home a new-ish suit. Sherlock, excited, has prepared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gentleman’s Guide to Breaking in a Suit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).



> This is dedicated to Atlin because she first shared the pics of the shoes, and then suggested where John's feet should be to get the best use out of them, ie, planted squarely against Sherlock's bare shoulders. And also just because.

John is working today, but he has texted Sherlock to say he’s bringing home a new-ish suit.

Sherlock, excited, has prepared.

Before he began his preparations – a long shower, a little pubic trimming, and an hour selecting the perfect garments and shoes – Sherlock spent his day doing a little of the IT consulting work that keeps the income ticking over, and writing up case notes about last night’s entertaining Baker Street Agency case.

John already shared the photograph on Instagram of the moment the theatre manager was exonerated of the charge of attempting to drive the leading lady bug-fuck crazy. His relief is palpable in that picture.

John wasn’t quite quick enough with the phone camera to catch the moment Sherlock placed the blame squarely on the leading man, though he got a good aftermath shot when the actress squarely dumped blame in the form of a vase full of roses, water and the mini speaker that had produced the peculiar and creepy whispers she constantly heard. Apparently, the actor hoped to have her replaced with a fellow thespian, to whom he owed a massive favour.

After taking the picture of water and roses and tech cascading over the idiot actor’s surprised face, John managed to stop the vase-induced bleeding. Not the bruising, though. That actor is going to have a shiner and a half.

Sherlock managed to convince the actor not to press charges, on the basis that Sherlock would happily describe to the police said actor’s cocaine habits and series of thefts from the box office and his colleagues.

The understudy is going on tonight. The lead actor is auditioning for role as Pizzeria Animal Mascot in the morning.

John and Sherlock have a cheque for a thousand dollars from the theatre, the manager’s and actress’s undying gratitude, and tickets to any show, any night, any time they want.

But that was last night, and now Sherlock is reclined on their sofa, enjoying various sensations of fabric on his body. He’s wearing tailored trousers, and things under the tailored trousers. He has on a plum coloured dress shirt, unbuttoned. His hair, normally swept severely back, is in slight disarray. Not too much. John loves to be the one to make an artful mess of Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock loves John to do that.

Sherlock decides not to dwell on thinking about John’s fingers running through his hair, John breathing warm in his ear, with his fingers cradling Sherlock’s skull, John’s mouth on his throat and lips, their mouths and tongues providing hot, sweet, electric, beautiful connection while lower down they…

Yes. He stops thinking of that, because this underwear is precarious enough as it is.

He checks everything else he’s made ready.

A soft, washable blanket is folded over the sofa (thinking ahead, in case they need something to protect the fabric; Sherlock expects they’ll need it). Two glasses, a bottle of Brown Brothers Cienna Rosso and a larger bottle of lube are arranged on the handmade blackwood-and-Victoria-ash Wilkins and Kent coffee table. Sherlock doesn’t know if the wine will be drunk, but the lube is absolutely essential. Maybe some wipes. And an extra towel.

After three goes, Sherlock is happy with how he’s arranged himself on the sofa. Pretend-casual but also come-hither. He practises the pose a little, then relaxes, fingers steepled, to think about the little problem that was emailed to the new agency Gmail account today. Already, he’s getting referrals. Another reason to celebrate.

Though John, in his new-ish suit, is reason enough.

*

It’s no secret to his tailor that John Watson buys a lot of his suits at Savers. He can spend ages going through the racks in the massive recycled clothing store, looking for the good quality suits that have come in from a deceased estate. He has found excellent fully- and half-canvassed suits there, so much better quality than the fully fused suits that Mycroft disparages so acidly. 

(John brought in a fully fused suit once, in the very early days at Captains of Industry. Mycroft lectured him on the difference between suits stiffened with canvas and those with glue. For 45 minutes. And again in the afternoon. Mycroft spent another twenty minutes the following day making John analyse a series of suits with spot tests, to ensure he knew the difference next time. John paid attention. If he ever has to listen to that lecture again, with Mycroft half way between rage and tears, he’ll either gag Mycroft, or Greg, who hates Mycroft being upset, will boot him down the stairs.)

John finds good shoes at Savers too, sometimes: battered brogues that can be made beautiful when he stains them with patina dyes.

John takes the best suits to Mycroft to have them tailored to fit him perfectly. The tailoring usually costs a lot more than the suit, for all that Mycroft gives him Mates Rates. Some suits are too long or a size too big, but Mycroft is brilliant at trimming and tucking and making those rare Zegnas and Armanis fit him perfectly. One time, found a bespoke suit – no tag, no name, made by a gifted someone without fanfare – and it’s still his favourite.

Greg once asked John if it wasn’t creepy, wearing dead men’s clothes. John puckered his lips thoughtfully, pointed out that he’d died once himself, shrugged and wouldn’t be drawn on the matter further.

Today, Mycroft has completed the alterations on his latest find. John looks goddamned fantastic in this suit. He nips back to his studio at lunchtime to pick up the new shoes he has stained, and they are the perfect match.

He texts Sherlock. ‘Suit done. Shoes done. Coming home in style tonight!’

Sherlock texts back a selfie so hungry with desire that John grins to himself for an hour after. Every time the grin wears off, he looks at his boy’s hungry eyes again and gets hot-and-smug all over again.

Before leaving Captains of Industry for the day, he goes into the washroom and takes time to groom immaculately and change into the altered suit and the beautiful new shoes. His moustache is looking very fine, his hair just so. His red braces are handsome against his white shirt, the tie sitting perfectly. (He can’t wait for Sherlock to loosen that tie, to take his time with it, maybe use it to pull John down for a kiss.)

He leaves just as Mrs Hudson is locking up. She grins at his cocky walk, a strut full of confidence and swagger.  He is so very much a man who knows he’s about to get some good lovin’ at home that the mood is infectious. Martha phones Dimitri and arranges an evening of good lovin’ of her own.

*

Sherlock hears John on the stairs, even in his state of meditation, so before the door opens he has shifted into his pose. Nonchalant yet accessible. Shirt open, hair so-slightly tousled. Trousers clinging in all the right places (legs spread a very little to emphasise the effect) and the high heeled, plum, lace shoes on subtle display. Those are new.  A bit of an experiment.

John opens the door, puts a bag (containing the morning’s suit and shoes) by the coat stand, and straightens in that peculiar at-ease yet at-the-ready stance of his. Relaxed but alert. His mouth is crooked in that lovely half-grin, and his hands are loose at his sides. His moustache is waxed to delicious elegance, he has a pair of patinaed shoes in tan and dark brown on his steady feet, and he’s wearing a dark grey trilby that Greg has brushed up for him. John’s new-ish suit, one of his canny finds from Savers, has been expertly altered to fit his compact, perfect body.

He’s gorgeous. John Hamish Watson is #fucking _gorgeous_.

Sherlock cannot see his own expression, but he knows it’s the same one he photographed to send to John earlier today. Simultaneously soft and hungry. Sultry yet open. It took no effort to achieve that look for the selfie; he just lets how he feels show in his face. He shows John his heart, full of love and desire but also vulnerability, because it asks for everything but offers it too.

John’s face, now, looks a lot like Sherlock’s does in that picture. So full of love and of desire, of want and need. A heart that offers up every pounding beat to Sherlock, and asks for the same in return. And it is given to him. _Oh, it is._

John has shut the door behind him and stands, head high, aware that he is being scrutinised. Sherlock is reading John, and John loves for Sherlock to see him, but since John changed there’s not a lot of the day to be seen. No coffee splashes or weariness. John looks good in his suit and knows it. He feels energised and is full of anticipation. John’s face and body and clothes speak not of a day pouring shots and dealing with the occasional dickhead, but of the last half hour at the café – getting ready to come home to Sherlock.

Instead of rushing to Sherlock, though, he stands before the closed door and _looks._

John’s gaze very deliberately begins at Sherlock’s eyes and travels down Sherlock’s reclined body, and when he sees the shoes he licks his lips and smiles, his eyes becoming darker and more luminous. Sherlock can feel his cock thickening at the look John gives him.

‘Well,’ says Sherlock, and his voice is deeper and rougher than even he meant it to be. ‘Show me.’

John, the magnificent tart, grins like an imp, strikes a confident post and, looking like a model from Bespoke Tailoring’s 1895 Self-Made Man Summer Catalogue, he _winks._ He takes off his trilby, spins it in nimble fingers, tosses it without looking and goddamn, if it doesn’t land perfectly on the bare hook.

Sherlock thinks, _#bullseye_. He thinks, _I’m fifteen percent harder now_. _Make that twenty._ He thinks, _why is that so hot?_ and _#perfectJohnisperfect_ and _#suckmenow._

And then John strides across the living room like a catwalk model. He stops for a small skip-dancing step, reminiscent of Gene Kelly, spins on his heels and halts before Sherlock with a hand on his hips, pulling back the coat to reveal his waistcoat, the placket of his trousers, a sexy tilt to his fucking sexy hip. He is both model-gorgeous and smoking hot masculine and Sherlock is fifty percent harder again, and it’s showing.

John can see. He grins. He takes off his coat and swings it over his shoulder. He places one foot on the sofa, right next to Sherlock, the shiny tan toe of his patinaed shoe right next to Sherlock’s parted lips.

Sherlock’s tongue sneaks out and licks the tip of the shoe. It’s something of a surprise to both of them that he’s done that, though sort of not. From his angle on the sofa, Sherlock can see that John is filling out the front of his trousers rather more magnificently now _. #twentypercentharder_ he thinks smugly. He licks the tip of the shoe again and his observations amend that to _#sixtypercenthard_.

This whole catwalk thing, John showing off the suit, it’s become a thing they do, since before they moved into their home. It’s fun and silly and sexy, how Sherlock loves John to show off his new clothes. How John loves to strut his catwalk stride for Sherlock; even if he doesn’t know why Sherlock loves it so.  

Sherlock knows why. And it’s as simple as this.

The first time John joined Sherlock while wearing a newly altered suit, he preened. He walked into the hotel room with his head high, his shoulders back and that sexy strut, knowing that he looked good. Wanting to look good for Sherlock. Sherlock approved of John’s looking good not with compliments but with deductions, spoken low and deep and urgently.

_A recycled fashion suit, John. You show excellent taste as well as admirable economy. Previous owner likely a dancer, Mycroft kept the seams cut for movement, you look like a dancer when you move in it John. Shows off your arse, and your shoulders. Ah, it’s not just economy at work, you like giving new life to old clothes, shoes, it reminds you of yourself, repurposed after the army, made useful and strong again. Beautiful. The suit yes, but you. Beautiful John. Oh John. John._

A lot of fantastic sex ensued.

Then it happened again. Because Sherlock, without fail, must worship at the altar of Perfect John’s Perfect Strutting Suited Sexiness.

John returns his foot to the floor but before he can make another move, Sherlock sits up on the sofa. He places his hands on John’s hips and he caresses John’s hips and thighs and arse and legs through the fabric. Sherlock revels in the texture of the cloth against his fingertips, and in the sensation of John’s muscles beneath. Tensing and then relaxing with the path of Sherlock’s hands.

Sherlock runs his hands up again, still seated, gazing up into John’s face. He leans back slightly, to better display his bare chest beneath the plum shirt. John looks down – to Sherlock’s throat and pecs and belly, and down to the unmistakable sign of his arousal pushing at the zip of his trousers.

Sherlock’s hands go up, over John’s waist, then he flattens his hands to rub John’s ribs through the cloth. His chest. He presses, feeling John’s nipples faintly beneath the layers of cloth. Sherlock rubs with thumbs and forefingers the place under the cloth, making John’s nipples harder. Satisfied with the result, Sherlock smooths his hands down the waistcoat again, and unbuttons it.

John watches.

Sherlock takes the coat from John’s hand and drapes it over the arm of the sofa (at all times, even now, he will #respectthesuit). He returns then to smoothing his palms over John’s clothing. Over the white shirt now. Under the red braces. He plays with John’s nipples again, through the cloth.

Sherlock, still seated, leans forward to nuzzle his nose into John’s crotch, which is #eightypercenthard, and he inhales because he loves the scent. He loves it when John smells of coffee and moustache wax, and he loves it when John smells of sweat and shoe polish, and he loves it when John smells of sex and _them_ , and the latter is Sherlock’s goal.

‘Sherlock,’ breathes John and Sherlock turns his face up to smile at John. He takes john's tie and slowly tugs, but then John swoops down on him, from zero to passionate breathless kissing in 0.02 seconds.

Sherlock puts his arms around John’s waist and tugs. John’s willing, controlled fall ends with his knees bracketed around Sherlock’s hips, and not once do they stop kissing. Sherlock’s hands are scooped around John’s bum, alternately caressing the texture of the fabric, drawn taut over John’s rear, and squeezing wonderful handfuls of that rear. Sometimes he rubs a forefinger down the seam, between the cheeks of John’s arse. The stitching there is excellent. A bit of give without strain. He massages John’s bum again, loving the feel and fit of him in his palms.

John smears moustache-tickling kisses over Sherlock’s cheeks, back to his mouth, down his chin and jaw and throat. From where he straddles Sherlock’s lap, he places his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and then down, over his chest and ribs. He rubs Sherlock’s nipples and then cups Sherlock’s face to kiss him soundly and then he threads his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and makes him gloriously dishevelled while they kiss.

Then, while John noses at Sherlock’s curls and kisses his temple, with one hand around the nape of Sherlock’s neck, the other slides down over Sherlock’s torso and into the waistband of his trousers. He flicks the button open. He ever-so-carefully pulls down Sherlock’s zip and cups Sherlock’s _#ninetyfivepercenthard_ cock through the silk of a pair of panties that barely contain him.

‘Oh, I want to see,’ says John in a reverent yet urgent hush. He crouches and pulls Sherlock’s trousers down to his hips. Sherlock raises his bum from the sofa so John can pull them below his hips and thighs to his knees.

Sherlock is wearing black silk stockings with a lacy trim, and slender black suspenders and plum coloured silk panties underneath his staid black suit trousers.

John is momentarily stymied, torn between the dozen things he’d like to do next. But he’s a man of action. What he does is kiss Sherlock then, just as Sherlock is moaning and whimpering from sex-with-John’s-tongue, John moves. Sucks on his nipples. Kisses his belly. Kneels and leans over to kiss the outline of Sherlock’s cock through the silk.

John slips his finger beneath the leg of the panties, and presses a soft kiss to the side of the shaft thus revealed. He pulls the cloth further aside and presses puckered lips to Sherlock’s’ slick and slippery crown. Moustache and lips combined are almost more stimulation than Sherlock can stand, but he can stand it, oh god, oh yes, he can he can he can.

John licks his lips, kisses the sweet sticky head again, over the slit, then slides the tip of his tongue over that teeny hollow and then kisses that velvety, wet skin again. Sherlock’s cock gets harder. _#ahundredpercentohfuck._ He is looking at Sherlock the whole time. Sherlock is looking at him too and cannot remember how to word. He once nouned like anything, verbed with the best, but in this instant, vocabulary is just something that happens to other people.

Then, with his wicked smile more adoring and wicked than ever, John carefully pulls the panties back into place, gently pats the erection beneath the silk, and continues to remove Sherlock’s trousers. It’s tricky getting them over the lacy shoes, but John is nothing if not patient, even with his blood running as high as this.

He frees Sherlock’s left leg first, and kisses it from ankle to that sensitive spot behind the knee to Sherlock’s inside thigh. A kiss over the panties again – the head of Sherlock’s cock is poking above the panty waistline and John kisses is again. New wetness beads and streams from the tip.

‘You’re so perfect,’ says John, before renewing his task.

Sherlock can only stutter for breath while John removes the trousers fully, and folds them, and puts them aside. (Gotta #respectthesuit.)

‘Show me,’ murmurs John, and Sherlock rises shakily to his feet. John is now sitting on his backside, hands propping him up, legs bent and spread to make room for his erection in his well-cut trousers. He is _watching_.

Sherlock stands tall and proud and stunning, showing off his long feet in these beautiful shoes that took so long to find in his size. Showing off his lithe legs in this black silk topped with lace. Showing off his hips and cock in these panties that hardly hold his cock and balls restrained. He turns a little, sensuously, lifting his shirt tails, to show off his arse and the silk clinging to it. He pauses then, because he hears John moving, and then John is mouthing the mounds of his bottom that spill out of the lace trim. Sherlock bends slightly at the waist, and he can feel John’s hot breath, John’s nose, at his cleft, through the silk. Even through that sheer cloth he can feel John’s moustache.

John’s finger runs along the edges of the panties, underneath to stroke softly at Sherlock’s bottom, and then his perineum, and he’s in serious danger of getting dizzy from the rush of blood to his cock and falling off the damned shoes, except that John’s hands on his thighs steady him, and then John withdraws.

 _#Blessingandacurse ,_ thinks Sherlock.

He completes his turn and stands there, bare chest framed by the plum shirt, cock peeking above the plum panties, thighs quivering.

Sherlock reaches down to caress John’s face, and then he tangles his fingers in the front of John’s shirt to urge him to his feet.

John goes up easily, happily. He doesn’t mind at all that Sherlock, in those shoes, has an extra ten centimetres on him now. He simply takes the opportunity to wrap his arms around Sherlock’s waist, nibble at Sherlock’s nipples then stretch up to nuzzle at his throat. Sherlock holds into John’s shoulders for dear life to begin with, and then, with sudden clever footwork, he had turned them, he is pushing John down onto the sofa, he is pinning John to the cushions with kissing and stroking and a stockinged knee between John’s thighs.

Sherlock pauses to divest John of the tie (swift, no wasting time) and waistcoat (he folds it quickly, lays it over the suit jacket, #respectthesuit) and then he pushes the red braces from John’s shoulders.

Sherlock resumes crowding over John while he flicks each of John’s shirt buttons open.

John has lifted his heels to rest on the sofa, his legs spread to let Sherlock fit between them, though Sherlock holds himself apart still. Sherlock wipes his fingers over the pre-come wetness of his cock, and John seizes his hand and licks and sucks Sherlock’s fingers, humming gutturally at the taste.

With his free hand, Sherlock undoes the button on John’s trousers. He wriggles his fingers into the gap and lowers the zip.

He bends to kiss John, to kiss the taste of himself from John’s mouth, and while he does that, and with John’s help, he tugs John’s trousers and boxers down to John’s knees.

Elegance is abandoned, and is not a prerequisite for lust or love. The thing now, when they are both so hard and stupid with want, is to make sure the suit survives.

Sherlock helps John to move, to lie along the sofa, to lift his legs and bend them back. John’s suit and boxers are around John’s ankles, his gleaming shoes still on his sturdy, small feet, and his arse and bollocks and thick, hot cock are bared.

Sherlock kisses that arse, the tight bollocks, the beautiful thick shaft of John’s beautiful cock. He kisses the back of the John’s thighs and licks them, and the crease of his arse over his lovely hole, under and over his balls and along the shaft, over the frenulum (he flicks his tongue there for a few delicious seconds while John says fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck) and he suckles on the glans then swallows John’s prick in a long, slow suck before popping off.

Sherlock grabs the lube while John grabs his own ankles to keep himself exposed. John arches as Sherlock rubs lube-slick fingers over his entrance. When Sherlock plays and takes his time to slip a finger, then two, into him, John tries to thrust himself onto those clever fingers.

Sherlock kisses John’s cock with soft full lips, the way John teased him earlier, and slowly fingerfucks his beautiful man until John is a gibbering mess.

Sherlock is very near a gibbering mess himself, so he tugs his pretty panties down just far enough – just under his balls, tight across his arse , and he slots himself between John’s knees. They both groan with oh-thank-fuck delight as Sherlock’s prick sinks into John’s body. Withdraws until only the head is inside John’s hole, and then plunges back in.

Sherlock in those sheer panties; John in the suit and shoes: they do love to cater to each other’s delight.

They rearrange themselves slightly, so that John’s shod feet are on Sherlock’s shoulders. Those gorgeous shoes are in Sherlock’s periphery vision, and John’s strong legs, and Sherlock pumps his hips a couple of times, inspired by this vision alone.

John’s chest is bare but framed by the white shirt. His body is tanned and strong and laid out for Sherlock to adore and worship and love. It’s not elegant, John’s trousers and pants about his ankles, tangled over his shoes, but you know? Fuck elegance. Fuck the looking sharp and super-modelish. Fuck anything but their need now to be joined with nerves sparking joy, Sherlock pumping his hips, his prick sliding in and out of John’s fantastic arse while John says yesyesyesyesyesyesfuckmefuckmefuckme, until Sherlock comes with a deep-throated shout, still fucking John until it’s too sensitive to keep going.

But when that happens, Sherlock pulls away (come dribbles out onto the blanket Sherlock put down for them earlier, good planning, that) and with come making his crotch and panties sticky-wet, he bends over, swallows John’s prick and proceeds to lick and suck and tongue-flick that hot, gorgeous thing until John, hips jerking, bent legs in the air, fingers buried in Sherlock’s curls, crying _ah ah ah ah fuck Sherlock, Sherlock!_ comes hot and salty into Sherlock’s willing, wonderful, greedy mouth.

John’s suit-entangled ankles are behind Sherlock’s back now and Sherlock is sprawled over John’s body for a few minutes while they regain their breath and then use it to kiss each other languidly.

Mindful, though, Sherlock manoeuvres so he can kneel and take off John’s shoes (placed neatly on the floor) and his trousers. The stitching has held beautifully and there’s not a drop of semen on them. Sherlock folds them carefully and reaches up past John’s head to place the trousers over the waistcoat and jacket on the arm of the sofa.  While he is thus stretched, John pulls Sherlock’s panties back up so that they are no longer drawn tight around his bum and thighs.

Sherlock wriggles back to cover John’s body with his own. Their legs entwine. Sherlock’s curls have fallen over one eye and he is looking very damned pleased with himself. John, moustache and hair in similar disarray, looks similarly smug

‘The new suit has the Sherlock Holmes seal of approval then?’ John asks, barely suppressing a laugh.

‘Oh, it’ll do,’ says Sherlock magnanimously.

John slides his hand down the back of Sherlock’s panties to pinch that full, round bottom. Sherlock jumps, grins and nestles down, head on John’s chest. ‘I love you,’ he says.

John’s arms tighten around him, and hold him close. ‘I love you, too,’ he says, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, and Sherlock can feel John’s moustache move with John’s smile.

They are sticky and half-dressed and languid and in Sherlock’s opinion, they smell fantastic. Wax and sweat and polish and wool and their mingled come. They’ll shower soon, and that will be its own kind of fantastic, when they emerge smelling fresh and masculine and clean. Then they'll have the wine. For now, though, Sherlock knows they are bonelessly sated and happy.

_#onehundredpercenthappy_

**Author's Note:**

> Savers in Footscray is massive. It's part of a chain, but this branch of it is well known because it's in the heart of a very culturally diverse area, which is reflected in both the items it has for sale and its customers. A friend of mine buys all his suits there, and since he only wears suits (except to the beach) he shops there a lot. (This friend did [ The Tie Project ](http://www.thetieproject.com/), if you're interested. I recommend a browse through the pictures; some are hilarious).
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> John's sexy shoes:  
> 
> 
> Sherlock's sexy shoes:  
> 
> 
> John's trilby:  
> 
> 
> I don't have an image of the panties and stockings, but I guarantee that if you google 'men in lingerie' you'll find something pretty to look at.
> 
> Less lasciviously, here's the little Wilkins and Kent table:  
> 
> 
> Once more, so many thanks for your support of [this book.](https://narrellemharris.wordpress.com/my-books/the-adventure-of-the-colonial-boy/) If you can, doing [ this](http://221b-hound.tumblr.com/post/142513490670/hello-all-you-lovely-people-and-if-you-have) will also make me blow you kisses.
> 
> And there's [ this too, ](http://www.redbubble.com/people/narrelleharris/collections/412681-captains-of-industry)if you're interested.


End file.
